


Everything

by Hay_Bails



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hamish Watson - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:36:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and Mary Watson are killed in an auto crash, Sherlock finds himself taking care of their year-old son, Hamish. However, even genius detectives sometimes need help with parenting, and Greg Lestrade takes it upon himself to rescue the grieving man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            He looked so lost.

            I watched him from the other end of the grey, sterile hallway, holding John and Mary’s year-old son like he was the most fragile thing in the universe. The child, for his part, was playing with the fingers on Sherlock’s free hand, as if nothing was wrong at all.

            Sherlock wouldn’t cry, I knew. At least, not in public.

            “Sherlock?” I asked tentatively. He made no response. “Sherlock,” I tried again, a little more firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

            He whipped around to face me. The child in his arms was startled by the sudden movement, and began to cry softly.

            “Sorry,” I said to both of them, shuffling my hands into my coat pockets.

            “What is it, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, sounding dull and uninterested. He wiggled his fingers in front of the boy’s face. The toddler grasped his pinkie, and the crying ceased. He held the digit, enraptured.

            _Hamish,_ I thought to myself, memory finally throwing up a reference card. _The boy’s name is Hamish._

            “I… Sherlock,” I started, clearing my throat. Christ, this was difficult. “If you need anything… anything at all…”

            He stared at me for a moment. “I need John,” he said simply. His voice was rough, like gravel stones.

            I winced. “I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. It wasn’t enough.

            Sherlock searched my eyes for a moment, then looked back down at Hamish.            

            “I can’t raise a child,” he said without much conviction.

            _Of course not, you moron. Why were you named Hamish’s godfather in the first place?_

            “You can,” I said aloud. “You have to.”

            Sherlock nodded slowly. “I can’t give him up,” he admitted. “He’s…” the younger man trailed off. His eyes glistened.

            I watched him helplessly. This was absurd. Sherlock Holmes, bright as day and the bane of New Scotland Yard, brought to tears. This wasn’t right. He was meant to be off hounding Anderson. He was meant to be off shouting after some criminal mastermind, running fearlessly into the jaws of danger, or some such malarkey. Hell, he’d once taken out two snipers, armed only with a bit of rope and some keys. Nothing could faze Sherlock.

            Except, evidently, identifying the mangled bodies of John and Mary Watson.

            Christ, this was a mess. I ran a hand through my grey hair.

            “Tell you what. Why don’t you and Hamish come stay at my place tonight?”

            Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to meet mine. Hamish gurgled and batted at the detective’s thumb. I felt awful. I hadn’t seen that expression on the man’s face in nearly fifteen years.

            “Why?” He searched me for a reaction.

            _Because I don’t trust you not to do something incredibly stupid._

            “Because it’s nearly one in the morning, and my place is closer. Besides, it’s not like the other bedroom is being put to use.”

            The man stared blankly at me for nearly a minute. I began to fear that he would turn me down, or not say anything at all.

            Then he said, “All right.” His voice was as soft as silk. Gooseflesh ran up my spine.

            Damn that man.

            I nodded brusquely, and put a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. “Do you need time to say goodbye?”

            He looked torn. “I’m not… I don’t…”

            I made the decision for him, taking Hamish carefully from his arms. I nestled the child between the crook of my elbow and my chest.

            “Go. Say what you need to. We’ll wait out here for you.”

            Sherlock opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it again. He glanced at Hamish, then at me. Then he turned and walked back through the doors into the morgue.

            I looked down at the little boy in my arms. He had John’s look to him, eyes nose and mouth. His hair was lighter though. He yawned, and nestled into my chest with a frown.

            “Da?” he asked. “Da?”

            My heart broke in two.

            “Oh, Hamish,” I muttered softly, bouncing him a tad. “Sherlock will be back soon.”

            “Da,” he said, with another big yawn.

            “I know you’re tired, kid.” As if to confirm my assessment, the child’s face wrinkled and folded into a frown. I sighed sympathetically. “I wish I could bring your parents back for you.”

            He whimpered and began to cry, very quietly. Hamish was one of the quietest babies I had ever seen. He rarely cried at anything. However, it had been an extremely long day – for both him and Sherlock, though baby Hamish was certainly the more tired of the two.

            I rubbed a hand soothingly along Hamish’s back. “It’s okay. It will all be okay.” God, I wished that were true. I leaned back against the wall beside the door, fully prepared to wait the night through if that was how long it took for Sherlock to say goodbye to John.

            It wasn’t.

            I’ll admit I was a touch surprised when the detective walked out of the morgue not ten minutes later with dry eyes.

            “You say everything you need to?” I asked.

            He gave a curt nod, and took Hamish back into his arms. The boy immediately calmed down, and snuggled into Sherlock’s chest.

            “You’ve really got a way with him,” I said.

            Sherlock shrugged. “I researched how babies respond to different types of touch,” he said absently.

            “You _researched_ how to hold a child?” It seemed a miracle that anything out of Sherlock Holmes’ mouth could still manage to shock me.

            The detective said nothing. His mouth was drawn into a tight line.

Hamish was struggling to keep his eyes open. I watched the two of them for a moment before shaking my head. Let Sherlock keep his eccentricities. I just wanted to go to bed.

            “You ready to go? Squad car’s out front.”

            Sherlock nodded, and I placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him toward the exit. It was a testament to how badly off he was that he did not object to the touch. He kept his eyes fixed in front of him the whole walk to the car. We stepped into the car park, and I pulled out the key fob to unlock the door.

            Then, suddenly – “There’s no child seat.” Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

            I cursed inwardly.

            “Well,” I said, thinking as I rubbed the back of my neck. “He should be fine for the ride home, as long as you hold him in your lap.”

            Sherlock stared at me as if I was insane.

            “He _needs_ a child seat, Lestrade.” My skin prickled at the venom in his voice.

            I studied Sherlock for a moment, then cursed myself for being so thick. John and Mary had just died in an auto crash. Of course the man would be sensitive about this. He had every right to be sensitive about this.

            I straightened up. “You’re right. I’ll go back inside and see if they have one.”

            Sherlock looked ready for a fight, but just nodded, holding Hamish a fraction tighter.

            I rushed back inside. I asked the red-eye nurse, who directed me to a red-eye doctor, who eventually directed me to the hospital’s nursery. They had child seats all right, but it turned out they were all designed for newborns ready to be transported home for the first time. I eyed them with distaste. Hamish was a year old already – there was no way he’d fit into one of those things. Still, I figured a seat too small was better than no seat at all. I requisitioned one from the hospital under police authority.

            I brought it back to the squad car, where Sherlock was rocking back and forth on his heels. He immediately froze at the sight of the seat.

            “That’s too small,” he declared.

            “It’s all they had.”

            “He won’t fit.”

            I sighed, and placed the plastic seat on top of the car. A motorbike passed, momentarily flooding the car park with light.

            “It’s this, or all three of us walk the kilometers back to my place.”

            Sherlock looked ready to accept the second option, but by the grace of God decided not to argue. He looked upon the now-sleeping child in his arms.

            “Fine. I’ll hold him,” he said quietly, climbing into the car without a fight. “Just drive _carefully._ ”

            I tossed the useless child seat into the back of the car, and got in.

            The drive only took about six minutes, but it felt more like six hours, with how rigid and pale Sherlock had gone. He looked as though he might be sick. I wanted to tell him to shut his eyes, to block out the sight of the road – then I realized he was watching. He wanted to see the oncoming headlights; the terrifying loomings-up and fallings-away. Perhaps he was gauging the likelihood of us crashing. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Hamish, thankfully, lay peacefully on his lap the whole way. We made it to my house without incident, though Sherlock looked as if it had been the most traumatic drive of his life. Perhaps it had.

            He clambered out of the car quickly. The sudden motion accidentally nudged Hamish awake. The boy whined once, but fell back asleep at a gentle shush from his godfather.

            I locked the car. With a quiet word, I shepherded the lost detective into my house. I flicked on the entry light, but left the sitting room dim.

            “Would he be better off on the bed or the couch?” I asked, nodding at the kid.

            Sherlock looked doubtfully at the child. “He might… he might roll off.”

            I put a hand on the younger man’s arm. “I have an idea. What if we spread out a few blankets on the floor? That way there’s nothing to roll off of.”

            The detective looked frightened.

            “Do you know how many bacteria live on-“

            I sighed, and cut him off. “All right. Okay. Yes. I know. Well…” I scratched my head. “What if we put him on the bed and surrounded him with pillows to stop him moving about?”

            Now he looked petrified. His face was expressive as a silent film actor’s. “He might smother himself, Lestrade! He might… he…” The man bit back something that might have started its life as a sob. I wondered if he even remembered how to cry.

            “Easy, Sher,” I muttered. I touched his collarbone lightly. He closed his eyes, shuddering. I continued. “It seems to me that the floor holds the least amount of peril for this youngster, especially if I use clean blankets, eh? What do you say?”

            Sherlock breathed through his nose. “Yes,” he whispered.

            “All right, then. I’ll set up a spot for him beside your bed in the guest room.”

            He nodded. I patted him once, then left to go set up a nest for Hamish.

            Poor Sherlock. He didn’t have the first clue how to care for a child. It was almost funny – the genius rendered helpless by a baby. I rummaged through the closet. Perhaps two blankets – no, three blankets was best. I collected them, and walked into the guest room where I set them on the floor for Hamish.

            When I turned back toward the door, Sherlock was watching me. “Will this be enough, do you think?” I asked, hoping to calm him a little.

            Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t…”

            I gave a halfhearted smirk. “He’ll be fine. I promise.”

            The younger man looked at me helplessly, but listened, thank God, and knelt, setting the child down onto the blankets more gently than I would have thought possible. Hamish sighed, but did not wake.

            “See?” I whispered. “He’s just fine.”

            The boy’s godfather looked dazed.

            “Yes, he’s… fine,” he agreed. He sat on his knees, watching the baby sleep. I studied him for a minute.

            “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”

            “Hm? I don’t…” he trailed off, not even lifting his eyes.

            I frowned. Sherlock was far gone tonight. I tried a different approach.

            “Come with me. I’m making you tea.” I took his hands, and lifted him to standing. He followed me into the kitchen meekly. I set him in a wooden chair and put the kettle on to boil. I sat in the chair beside him.

            His eyes were cast down. The silence was palpable.

            “Sherlock…” I started, before thinking better of it. What was there to say?

            “Yes?” Not even a twitch of his eyes.

            I sighed. Now I had to say something. I gathered my thoughts.

            “Look... John loved you,” I began.

            That got his attention. Sherlock looked up, scrutinizing me.

            “You were his best friend, and I know you trusted him more than anything. That trust went both ways. I hope you know that.”

            Poor kid looked miserable.

            “I can’t fail him, Lestrade.” I wasn’t sure if he meant John or Hamish. Perhaps he meant both.

            “You won’t.” I realized the words were true as they left my mouth. Sherlock would make sure that Hamish was taken care of, despite public – and private – opinion about him. He was not a psychopath, regardless of how others labeled him. Regardless of how he labeled himself. I had seen how he looked at John, and I had seen how gentle he was with John’s son. “And please, Sher, just call me Greg. I know you know my name.”

            He fidgeted in his seat before looking down once more.

            The kettle whistled, and I moved to go grab it. I poured out two mugs, and spooned in the tea. “Hope you don’t mind loose leaf,” I said, setting his mug in front of him. He picked it up and cradled it in his hands.

            “Le… Greg,” he said softly.

            “Yeah, Sher?”

            “I’m so scared.”

            I looked up at him sharply. Sherlock Holmes, admitting weakness? This was not a good sign.

            “You don’t have to be scared. I know that Hamish Watson will be the best protected little boy in London.”

            He drew in a shaky breath, and set the mug back on the table.

            “A protector is one thing. A father is another…”

            “One step at a time, yeah?”

            Sherlock placed his hands in his lap. Then, prim as you please, he let out one shaky sob. Then another. “Sorry,” he whispered delicately, trying to control himself. His raven hair bobbed around his face.

            Sherlock Holmes was not a big man. He was thin, and shadowy, and several shades too pale. Here, in the half-light, he looked no more than a child himself – like he was in his twenties, rather than his forties.

            _And if he’s forty, what does that make me?_

            I sighed and stood, moving to crouch beside him. I placed my arm around his shoulders.

            “No apologies. You get out whatever you need to get out.” He hesitated, still trying to gulp back tears. After a moment, I stood once more, pulling him to his feet with me. I pulled his head onto my shoulder. “There’s no need to feel ashamed. There’s nothing wrong with letting it out.”

            “Greg _,_ ” he moaned plaintively, wrapping his arms around my torso.

            “That’s it,” I muttered, trying my damnedest not to feel guilty about enjoying the touch. _For Christ’s sake, he’s twenty years younger than you, Greg. And in mourning._

            I breathed deeply, placing a hand on his head. His hair was warm.

            _You sick old man._

            Sherlock sobbed like a scratched record. I suspected this was the first time he had truly cried in years. I murmured soft words to him, not entirely sure of what I was saying.

            It occurred to me that I should be feeling upset too. John had been a good friend to me. We had often gone for drinks of a Friday evening, after a long day of work at the Yard. He had been easy to talk to. I’d grown quite fond of him over the past four or five years – though, of course, not as fond as I’d ever been of Sherlock. Still, I couldn’t find it in me to shed tears. Not yet.

            Sherlock was apologizing.

            “Shush,” I told him. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.” I ran my hand down his neck and along his spine. His muscles were painfully tense.

            _You sick, gay old man._

            He choked on a sob and began to cough. I continued to rub his back gently.

            “Easy,” I muttered.

            “Greg-“ he managed to get out, in between sobs. I looked down at him worriedly. He was paler than normal, with a tinge of green in his cheeks.

            Small wonder that he was nauseous. John and Mary had been a gruesome sight after the auto wreck, even to experienced eyes. It was harder to see the body of a loved one, I had learned over the years. You couldn’t look at them quite as dispassionately.

            “Breathe, Sher,” I murmured. I watched him carefully. I realized that he was going to be sick before he did, which was fortunate, as I just had time to shepherd him to the kitchen sink before he retched.

            I held him by the shoulders as he brought up what little food he had eaten. He was white as a ghost by the time his stomach was emptied. He sank to his knees, covering his mouth with one hand.

            “Sorry,” he croaked again, looking positively miserable.

            I patted his shoulder, reaching across the counter for a glass. I filled it with water, wrinkling my nose at the puddle of vomit in the sink. I would clean that once I had put Sherlock to bed.

            “’S all right,” I said, kneeling beside him. I gave him the glass of water, which he sipped at before setting it aside. “Let me know if you need to be sick again.”

            He shook his head. I placed my hand on the back of his neck.

            I was suddenly deeply grateful that I had brought him back to my house instead of leaving him alone with Hamish at his. He continued to cry, obviously less comfortable for having been ill, but unable to quell his tears.

            My thighs were aching, so I settled onto my knees. I pulled Holmes closer to me, so that his shoulder was pressed to my chest. I took one of his hands into mine. His fingers were clammy.

            I watched him try to pull himself back together. It was a sorry sight.

            Still, there was really nothing more to say. I held him tight to me for what felt like hours. Finally, his tears seemed to be subsiding. I stood, pulling him up with me.

            “I’ve got a spare toothbrush in the hall bath,” I told him as he rubbed his swollen eyes with the heels of his hands. “Haven’t used it. You’re welcome to it.”

            He nodded, apparently not trusting his voice enough to answer aloud.

            I led him to the bathroom, and waited just outside the door for him to finish. You could say I wasn’t listening for the snick of my old razor, but you would be wrong. When the man emerged a few minutes later, he looked positively haggard.

            “Bed for you, I think,” I muttered, taking him by the arm and leading him into the spare room where Hamish still slept on the floor. I tried to push Sherlock down onto the bed, but he wasn’t having it. He pulled away from me and lay on the floor a careful distance away from Hamish. His eyes locked onto the little boy.

            I almost picked him up and set him on the mattress – lord knows he was small enough for me to do it – but I knew that would prove futile. I let him lie beside his godchild. After a moment’s consideration, I took the duvet from the bed, and spread it over Sherlock’s thin shoulders.

            “Get some rest,” I said quietly. He gave no response.

            I left the room long enough to clean the mess in the sink and wash my hands. When I returned, Sherlock had not moved a muscle. He was still wide awake, watching the little boy sleep.

            I sighed and sat on the floor beside him, joints creaking.

            “You need to sleep,” I said softly, for fear of waking baby Hamish.

            His brows furrowed but he said nothing.

            I hesitated for a brief moment before placing a hand on his back. I moved my thumb in a wide circle, hoping to soothe the detective. It took some minutes, but eventually, his eyelids drooped and finally closed. His breathing slowed.

            I moved my hand away, making to stand and head to my own room – I might still be able to sleep an hour or two, if I was lucky – when Sherlock’s voice stopped me.

            “Don’t go, please,” he said, so softly I almost didn’t hear. His eyes didn’t open, but he was obviously not asleep.

            “Sherlock,” I said, equally quietly.

            “Please,” he repeated.

            I knew how much that simple word cost him. Sherlock Holmes never asked for help, ever. I ran my hand down my face and took a breath. I couldn’t refuse him.

            “Yeah, alright,” I said after a moment. I reached up and grabbed a pillow from the bed and set it on the ground. I laid it at the edge of the blanket, and laid down, nesting my body close to his. Ever so softly, he sighed at the contact.

            _You dirty, horrible old man._

            “Thank you,” he breathed.

            I looped my arm around his torso.

            “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

            He did.


	2. Chapter 2

            “Tod.”

            I woke to an insistent tapping on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. At some point during the night, I had rolled onto my back. Sherlock had tangled himself around me, a heap of bony arms and legs. I pulled a chunk of raven hair from my mouth.

            “Tod!” Another tap. I turned to see baby Hamish bringing his hand down repeatedly upon my shoulder. He grinned widely when he saw that I was awake. “Tod. Tod.”

            “Yes, yes, I’m up,” I whispered. “Now hush, or you’ll wake Sherlock.”

            “I’m awake,” the man in question mumbled into my chest. Damn. I had hoped that he would sleep for a while longer. “He’s been at it for at least ten minutes. I’m surprised you didn’t wake sooner.”

            “Why didn’t you get up?” I asked.

            “Didn’t want to wake you.”

            I bit back a small amount of surprise. That was extremely considerate, coming from Sherlock.

            All the same, I was awake now. Might as well make the most of it, I supposed. I disentangled my arms and stretched them over my head with a groan. My shoulders popped in unison.

            “God,” I muttered. Getting older every day. “If you stay again tonight, we’re sleeping in my bed.”

            Hamish giggled and tapped my upper arm. “Tod.”

            “Yes, we’re both awake. Now if your godfather would be so kind as to get up, we could get you some breakfast.”

            Hamish’s godfather moaned and tightened his hold on my torso. A not-unpleasant feeling coursed through my body at the touch. He mumbled something that might have been “Not yet.”

            I looked down at the detective with some worry. As nice as the touch was, it wasn’t difficult to acknowledge that Sherlock was feeling terrible. He clung to me with fervor. Soft sunlight washed over him, highlighting his pale skin.

            “Da?” Hamish asked worriedly, his attention turned, for the moment, to his godfather. “Da?” He looked at me as if to ask, ‘Is he all right?’

            “Sherlock,” I breathed, trying to get the detective’s attention myself. I shook his arm once or twice. “Hamish will need food, and probably a fresh nappy.”

            “Hm…” Sherlock said, lifting his head slightly. He regarded the child for a moment. Then, painfully stiff, he pulled himself off my chest and sat up. “Do you really need food?” he asked Hamish seriously.

            I pulled myself up to sitting beside him.

            “Babies _do_ need to eat regularly,” I said with a shrug.

            “Da,” Hamish confirmed.

            Sherlock frowned. He reached over and picked the boy up, examining him. “Can we just feed him toast?” He turned Hamish around a few times. “Why are you damp?”

            Hamish squirmed. “Da,” he whined.

            “Sherlock,” I chided lightly. I was amazed that someone who had _researched_ how to hold a child had not the faintest clue of how to feed one. I reached over and took the boy from him, before stopping. “He’s right, you are damp.” I frowned. “I don’t have any nappies. Do you have any at Baker Street?”

            Sherlock looked, if anything, more dazed than he had last night. It was like he’d never heard of a nappy before. He shook his head.

            I sighed, standing, and propped Hamish against my hip. I thought for a minute. “There’s a Tesco just down the block,” I ventured. “I can run in and see if they have anything-“

            “No,” Sherlock said, cutting me off with a shake of his head.

            My forehead creased. “He needs breakfast, Sher. And a nappy.”

            “We can just… make him tea and toast, that’s what John would do, and-“

            “No, Sher,” I said softly, my heart sinking as I saw truly for the first time how helpless he really was. “We can’t make him toast. He needs baby food. And we can’t just let him run around naked.”

            “Please stay,” he said, very quietly.

            I closed my eyes, then opened them. “Look, I’ll only be gone twenty minutes. Tops.” Sherlock, still sitting on the floor, looked up imploringly. I gave him a halfhearted smile. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

            He turned away from me unexpectedly quickly. He turned his face to the ground, and his shoulders shook. Was he crying again? What had I said? He covered his mouth with his hand.

            “Sherlock?” I asked.

            He looked up at me once more. He wasn’t crying. He was laughing.

            “That’s what John said,” he stated, clasping his hands over his lips and nose, as if trying to filter the raw emotion pouring out of him through his fingers.

            “I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head.

            “Don’t you get it?” he asked, the bizarre laughter subsiding. “He said he’d be back. That it would only be a couple of hours.” He swallowed hard.

            _Oh._ I sank back down to my knees again, placing the child on the ground next to Sherlock. Hamish scooted closer to his godfather, tapping his hand lightly against his chest. “Da?” he asked, eyes wide. “Da?”

            Of course. Sherlock had been babysitting Hamish yesterday afternoon. John and Mary had wanted a night to themselves. They’d left their son with his godfather – who had been terrified. It was the first time Sherlock had been entrusted with the child for an entire night. He had in fact been texting me about it when I’d gotten the call about the crash.

            Poor boy was traumatized.

            “Hey.” I took Sherlock’s face into my hands, forcing him to look into my eyes. He was still a bit shaky. “I swear to you I won’t let anything happen. It’s a short walk.” A thought struck me. “Why don’t you and Hamish join me? We can all go together.”

            Sherlock looked up at me, considering. Then he nodded. “That would… be acceptable.”

            I clapped him on the shoulder, offering my other hand to help him up. “All right. Let’s go.”


End file.
